by Sam Millar
Geordie took a long draw on the cigarette before releasing the smoke slowly down her nose. An audible sigh of relief accompanied the sound. “For a while, I thought that perhaps Shank was right, that I was a boy. It is only lately I have begun to develop into anything resembling a woman; little hills of breasts, hair growing in interesting places …” She formed her lips into the shape of a disinterested smile. “I don’t remember the exact moment when I realized I was different, but as I developed more confidence, I saw the only way to deal with being different was to prove to myself that I could do any task offered me. I took it all as a challenge. But this afternoon was different. I was afraid of what my nakedness would mean to you. I was terrified it would have frightened you, repulsed you.”
Paul remained silent, not knowing what to say. He took the cigarette from her hand and inhaled, thinking how wrong she had been about marijuana: there is pain it cannot erase.
“If Shank had had his way with me, he would have drowned me as easily as Violet drowned the kittens. It was only years later that I discovered he had forced my mother to take so-called revolutionary tablets that were all the talk at the time; tablets that would strengthen her, helping her to grant him the son he so desperately and selfishly wanted. The tablets, of course, were a disaster. Countless thousands of babies were born with terrible defects, some of which make Violet’s and mine pale in comparison …”
Dew soaked itself within the earth and an intense, claustrophobic grey was shifting almost unnoticeably into blackness. Red lights flickered in the new dark and the speckled distance, while Paul and Geordie sat in the old dark for a long time, cigarettes lighting their pale faces.
“They say every girl wants a guy similar to dear old dad.” She made a crescent shape with her lips; a fake smile of ice. “I hope you are nothing like dear old dad. I don’t know why I have told you all this, Goodman. You are the first person all these years I have spoken to, willingly.” She inhaled the cigarette. “Don’t even think of breathing a word to anyone. I’m not Violet, but I am close …”
The malice was no longer in her words, as if she had been drained, mentally and physically. The warning sounded quite feeble.
Paul wished he had another beer. His throat was drying out. The mixture of alcohol and marijuana had laid waste to his inhibitions; now it was turning its attention to his tongue, loosening it. “We all carry nightmares, Geordie, but we smile and pretend that the world is really fine, even though we know how fucked-up it is. I always remember the Saturday mornings, as a kid, when I’d wake up early, sneak into my parents’ room, and burrow a narrow tunnel between their sleeping bodies. Their bed was an enormous life raft. I would imagine the three of us being the Swiss Family Robinson. But then, everything seemed to change for the worse. That was the day he didn’t come home …”
“It happens all the time, Goodman, men – fathers – leaving their family. I’m sure he must have –”
“No. You don’t understand. My father didn’t desert us – he would never do that. Something happened to him, something terrible, when I was a kid, a long long time ago.”
Geordie shifted her body, slightly, bringing her face closer.
“What? What terrible thing?”
Paul sucked in a piece of air, before slowing releasing it again.
“I vaguely remember him getting into a car with a group of men. It was raining that day. I remember the rain bouncing off the windows, distorting his face. I couldn’t see his face clearly enough, but I think he looked directly at me, at my mother. I was only a kid, but I can still remember that part like it was yesterday.”
“Whose car? Did you know any of the men?”
“No, but I’m almost certain my mother knows. I remember once when I asked her, she placed her hands on my face as if I were a baby. ‘Your father was a decent man – not a great man, but a very decent man, and that is a rarity. He was also a courageous man. If you have heard anything about him, from any of these people that he walked out on us, it is lies. Your father did not walk out on us. Do not concern yourself. You must never question me again about this – ever.’”
Again there was silence. Paul shivered slightly in the cold.
“Perhaps that was her way of reassuring you? Maybe she was too embarrassed to admit he left her? It happens all the time, Goodman. I know a couple of cousins –”
“I knew you would say that. Everyone thinks that. But I know that my father didn’t walk out on us. All his clothes and belongings were still in the house. My mother keeps them locked in our spare room. Why didn’t he take his clothes with him? And if my mother truly believed he walked out on her, why would she keep them, like a shrine dedicated to him. It doesn’t make sense, does it? Something did happen, something terrible. As his son, I know; I feel it.”
“Don’t say another word, Goodman. I think we’ve both said enough.”
“It’s my mother I’m more concerned about. She gets depressed and does weird things, embarrassing things.” Paul felt his face redden. “Some nights I catch her, swinging on my old battered swing in our yard, talking to herself”
Geordie laughed. “If that’s the worse thing she does, trust me, it’s nothing. I talk to myself, all the time.”
“She is always naked …”
“Oh … well … it’s nothing, really … hairs and holes … we all have them. Don’t we?”
“Can you imagine the embarrassment? The neighbours seeing her like that? It’s fucking horrible. I hate her when she gets depressed. How’s that for selfishness? I know she is lonely. I understand loneliness, sort of. It’s a sad state, full of dark thoughts. I know I should be trying to help her, but all I’m concerned about is the fucking neighbours and their spying eyes.” For a moment, pebbles of anger rested beneath his skin, festering with rage at all the bad memories, then just as quickly were gone, replaced with a tinge of guilt at his prior thoughts of hating his mother.
Geordie made a movement, as if to touch him.
“You can’t blame yourself for her depression. And as for the neighbours? Well, if I were you, I’d walk out into the yard, bollock-naked, as well. Jump on your swing, as well. Wave your dick at them. Now that would give the nosey bastards something to think about!”
Despite himself, Paul burst out laughing. “I wouldn’t have too much to wave.”
“Don’t be modest, Goodman. Remember, I saw you naked your first day on the job. Not too bad at all,” laughed Geordie.
“What a bastard you were. I’ll never forget that day.”
“It toughened you up, didn’t it?”
They sat there, not speaking another word, using the preferred communication that didn’t involve talking, like the ritual test of endurance experienced by those comfortable in the knowledge that they have conquered the unconquerable, allowing the silence to harden around them before melting away into abandon.
The tired moon released the faintest blue light, like a light bulb shifting over foil, bringing with it dampness. Yet, still they lingered, as if both knew that this was a magic time, a time to be remembered forever, a time never to be matched, and a time to be savoured for the days of ‘remember the time?’
It was twenty minutes later before they made a movement, walking in the direction of Old Johnson.
“One day you’ll drive this old beast, Goodman. Mark my words,” said Geordie, smiling, reaching for the truck’s door.
Instinctively, Paul moved to help her ease in, but received a withering look for his troubles.
“Don’t. I’m a cripple; not crippled, Goodman. That day hasn’t come. Not yet, anyway …”
The words made the hairs spike into his neck. Was she warning him of the inevitable, giving him a chance to change his mind, run while he had the chance? What would he do when, eventually, her body succumbed, confining her to a wheelchair for life?
CHAPTER NINE
GOING TO MEET THE MAN
“Everything that happens happens as it should, and if you observe carefully, you will f
ind this to be so.”
Marcus Aurelius
“Lovers’ rows make love whole.”
Terence
THREE WEEKS HAD now gone and Paul’s relationship with Geordie was slowly becoming stronger. He found himself looking forward to work, knowing she would be there. But deep down inside, something was niggling at him, a voice accusing him of cowardice and hypocrisy. He had yet to introduce Geordie to anyone he knew, and wondered if, secretly, he was embarrassed by her psychical appearance. He debated with himself that he was falling in love and that he could never be ashamed of her. Yet, the niggling remained, the tiny voice of reprimand accompanied him to bed each night, accusing.
“Would you come with me, tonight, after work?” he asked, trying desperately to sound casual.
Geordie looked at him suspiciously. “Where and why? You’ve never asked me to go any place with you before.”
“Oh, it’s just to the pawnshop, to meet Mister Kennedy. I think you’d like him. He’s been very kind to me over the last few months.”
“Why not your mother?”
“What?”
“Why not your mother?” repeated Geordie. “Why do you not want me to meet your mother – or Lucky, come to think of it?”
He felt his face burn. “I … well … you see …”
“No, to be honest, Goodman, I don’t see. I don’t see at all. What you’re really saying is that you are ashamed to be seen with me, ashamed of my shape, my walk. You don’t mind the incredibly dark holding sheds, or the privacy of my house. Do you?”
“No …” he mumbled, wishing he hadn’t opened his mouth. The worms were crawling out of the can, all over him. They refused to go back inside.
“Well, tell you what, Goodman, if you are ashamed of me, you’re not the type of person I want to be with, either. I don’t owe you anything for your company.”
“It’s not that, Geordie. It’s …”
“I’m looking at the face of a stranger. I don’t recognise you. Hate is building up in me. If I were you, I’d get out of my sight, right now before someone sees you speaking to me – and we couldn’t have that. Could we? Any chances you may have had with me have just been blown off the hinges.”
Everything was collapsing. A coward’s payment for a coward’s action.
“This is all new to me, Geordie. I’ve hardly been with a girl my entire life. I’m still not too sure how to handle them – handle you. Just give me another chance. I promise, you will not regret it.”
She studied him, her face implacable with righteous anger, her arms folded defiantly. It was ten long seconds before she spoke. “You’re on probation, as far as I’m concerned, Goodman. One more mistake –”
“There won’t be any more. I promise.”
“Okay. But don’t mess up.” Her eyes scowled, then softened slightly. “Now, where is this pawnshop you are so eager for me to visit?”
“Just outside Sailor Town. Not too far from where I live.”
“But what will Mommy and Lucky say? Surely they’ll be broken-hearted, me not visiting them first?” she whispered, mockingly, her tongue acid.
“We’ll do that first, then. Lucky should be in –”
“I’m kidding, Goodman. Mommy and Lucky will have to wait to be graced by my presence.” She smiled. “Who knows? Perhaps Mommy and Shank will fall in love? Wouldn’t that be fun? Have a wee Geordie-Paulie-type baby.” A smile covered her entire face.
“That’s not funny.”
“No? I think it’s hilarious.” She closed in on him, and quickly licked the dampness of his face. “You’re burning, Goodman. Good. Let that be a lesson to you. But just remember: probation means no more messing up. Got it?”
He nodded, releasing the pocket of air from his lungs.
They stopped at the pawnshop on the way home. The next payment wasn’t due for two more days, but if he paid it tonight, Paul wouldn’t have to make his way back over on Friday, distracting him from practising for an important tournament on Saturday, over at Whitewell Snooker Hall.
Two years in had taken him to reach this stage of his carefully planned career. He wanted to be on his best form. Joe Watson, manager of some of the biggest names in snooker, would be popping in to eye-up potential players of the future and as far as Paul was concerned, snooker was his future, his only hope of escaping the soul-murdering drudgery of his existence.
“I was almost about to close shop,” said Kennedy, friendly yet with that tinge of nervousness hovering beside him. “Five more minutes and I’d have been gone. And who is this beautiful young lady? You never told me you were dating someone as lovely as this, Paul,” smiled Kennedy, staring directly at Geordie.
“This is Geordie. She’s … we are …”
“Boyfriend and girlfriend, I think Paul is struggling to say, Mister Kennedy. You know how shy he is about these sort of things,” said Geordie. “Paul never shuts up about you. A pleasure to meet you.” She put out her hand.
“No, Geordie, the pleasure is all mine,” replied Kennedy, shaking Geordie’s hand. “Shame on you, Paul, not letting me know about this beautiful young lady.
“Yes,” agreed Geordie. “Shame on you, Paul, you naughty boy.”
“Can I get either of you a cup of tea, or something warm? How about a sandwich? I’ve some nice salmon in the fridge, back there. Would you like some?” inquired Kennedy, looking from Paul to Geordie.
“No, really, Mister Kennedy. It was just that I wanted to get my payment to you. I’ve a big match coming up on Saturday and I really need tons of practice.” Paul removed an envelope from his pocket, and handed it to Kennedy.
Without opening or checking the amount, Kennedy pocketed the envelope.
“Geordie? Can I entice you?”
Cheekily, she replied, “Well, time will tell.”
They all laughed. Except Paul.
“A big match, Paul? Where’s it being held?” Kennedy walked towards the door and pulled down the screen.
“At Whitewell.”
Paul could see Kennedy was impressed. Even the old man had heard of Whitewell.
“Whitewell? That is big. They say Joe Watson shows his face in there, every now and again, poaching for potential talent.”
Paul was impressed with Kennedy’s knowledge. “You know a lot more about snooker than you pretend, Mister Kennedy. I’m sure you’ve met a few of the old masters in your time.”
“Ha! Listen to him, Geordie. He makes me sound ancient. I’m not that bloody old – just a rough life,” laughed Kennedy who now seemed oddly comfortable discussing snooker and salmon sandwiches with Paul and Geordie. “I’ve some old photos if you want to see them, though I doubt you would recognise anyone in them. Long before your time, I’m afraid.”
Before Paul could reply, Kennedy disappeared into the shadows of a back room, emerging a few minutes later, covered in dust and speckled in webs.
“Filthy, back there. Never have the chance to …” mumbled Kennedy, apologetically. Seconds later, he sat an old picture album on the counter top. Carefully, he wiped the layers of dust from the plastic, revealing pictures pockmarked with time and neglect. Seconds later, he dove-tailed the pictures out, expertly, like a card dealer or magician.
“Actually, I have had these sitting about to show you. I thought you might be interested in their history, appreciate their time and place …”
Gingerly, Paul reached for the top layer of pictures. One more layer remained beneath. “What snooker hall was this? That’s not you, is it?” The picture revealed a young man, late twenties, bending his frame, attaching it to a snooker table. He was grinning for the camera.
“That photo was shot in your club, the Tin Hut,” replied Kennedy, who seemed to be smiling at the memories; memories long time dead, but now miraculously resurrected by the voice of the young man before his eyes.
“You’re kidding me? Shit, the place looked like crap, even then.”
“Yes,” agreed Kennedy. “It really was a dog of a place, but we th
ought it the greatest spot on earth. When we came together, we were like warriors preparing for battle. We may have been friends before the game, but once that game commenced … no prisoners taken …”
Engrossed, Paul knew exactly what Kennedy meant. It was how he himself felt before the beginning of each game, a feeling of ruthlessness, each man for himself, all the spoils for the victor, nothing for the vanquished. It were as if a spirit – good or bad – had entered you, and could only be exorcised by the ending of the game, preferably as the winner.
“These pictures should be hanging on the Tin Hut’s walls, Mister Kennedy. I’m sure the committee would pay you for them. They’re fantastic. A great piece of history.”
A tapping from above banged impatiently, annoyingly. Paul thought he had heard the sound the last time he had been in the shop.
“Ignore that sound,” advised Kennedy seeing Paul and Geordie’s eyes glance in the direction of the ceiling. “That’s just an old bird, trapped in the attic. I’ll have to wring its neck one of these days …”
Paul smiled obligingly, yet feeling awkward and uncomfortable at the harshness in Kennedy’s voice. “Well, I guess we’ll be running on. We’ve a couple of errands to do before getting home.”
“I’ve something for you. I need you to hold on for a few minutes more. I’ll try not to be long.”
Kennedy was gone, heading for the stairs at the back, leaving Paul and Geordie in their own company.
“Well? What do you think of him?” asked Paul.
“I’ve only met the man for all of ten minutes, and you want me to make a judgement? I’ve got to be careful of my judgements in future. Know what I mean?”
